Memories, of the way we were...

Ahhh, memories, sights and sounds and images tucked away in the far reaches of our brains, now and then emerging out of nowhere to remind us of what once was, whether that once was was good, bad or ugly.

Starting today, I'll finish every Friday with a memory of my own, dredged from that part of my own mind-bank where I've stored all my past experiences school-related, however remotely, so as to stay on topic, this being a school blog and all.

Since this is my first stab (and also since I'm eager to start my weekend -- TGIF!), I'll make my inaugural rehashing on the short side, employing as much brevity as possible (my intro is long enough, I know) in regaling you with my recollection of the first time I was forced to endure a school picture session.

It was in preschool, I was wearing a forest-green turtleneck and my hair was cut into something of bowl, though my bangs were somewhat squared off. And then there was that unfortunate cowlick that remains to this day.

A shy girl with a distaste for speaking to, much less interacting with, anyone other than my parents, my sister and select friends, I was, to put it mildly, extremely displeased when a strange man came at me with a comb -- pulled, by the way, from a large jar stuffed with the plastic contraptions, which at the time didn't occur to me but now that I think about it was very hygienically suspect -- then proceeded to instruct me to "smile pretty for the camera."

I did not comply. In fact, I went the opposite direction and, as I was often wont to do in my childhood (as I'm so frequently reminded, still, by my sister), I swallowed any semblance of a smile and instead shoved my bottom lip out as far as I could get it and settled into the poutiest pout you ever did see.

And I wouldn't budge, despite the photographer's pleas -- not to mention those of my teacher, who was there with the rest of my class, all lined up and awaiting their own closeups -- to please smile. Just once, please.

It was not to be. And so he took the picture of pouty preschooler Shellly, a picture that to this day hangs on the wall at my parents' house, forever reminding me -- with not a little pleasure, I must admit -- of the fiery toddler that was and how, as just wee 5-year-old (wait, are you 4 in preschool, or 5? I forget), I managed to so fluster a grown man.

Happy weekend, y'all. Send your own school memories to me anytime: shelly.leachman@dailybreeze.com.